July 2017 – HUMOR IS NO FUN UNLESS YOU LAUGH

The Biker

We had taken a room in a Bed & Breakfast place in this small Southern California mountain town. There were a few shops but only one restaurant and we needed dinner. Not a free table, the maitre d’hotel assured us. There are two places left at the bar however, he said, next to that gentleman there, in the back.

We took one look at that “gentleman” and the saliva in our mouth went dry. What we saw was a man of sturdy build, scrubby hair, full beard, and a biker’s helmet in front of him on the counter. Hell’s Angels, we both thought. No way will we sit there. But we were hungry. I looked at my wife; she looked at me. Forward then. Mustering my most nonchalant self I pulled up our two bar stools, smiled at the bearded gentleman and gave him a friendly “Good Evening, Neighbor”. He responded in the most welcoming way and I could tell right away from the way he used the English language that he was a highly educated man masquerading as a rough biker. Not only that but he and his charming wife, he explained, had biked in from Big Bear to celebrate her birthday, which made us all break out laughing because it so happened that we had driven in from Newport Beach to do the same thing, it being my wife’s birthday too. Never was ice faster broken.

Needless to say, the conversation soon turned to motorcycles. Our new friend and his better half each rode their own machines. I forget what make or models they had but we did talk a lot about the merits, advantages and disadvantages of various brand names and of bike riding in general. At that point I just had to inform the gentleman that I hailed from Germany and that, when I was still an infant, my father not only had a motorcycle but that it had been an American make, an Indian. At the mention of that fact a new burst of excitement broke out in our corner of the restaurant. Our table neighbor was particularly fond of that old type of bike. He pronounced the name “Indian” as if it were something holy, something that stirred memories in his mind.

He and his wife had already finished their dinner when we arrived. When our food was brought they were ready to leave. We all got up, shook hands all around, told each other what a pleasure it had been, and parted in high spirits.

How wrong you can be, we thought, when you rely on appearances. You just can’t judge a gentleman by his helmet . How could we have mistaken a professor — at least we thought that is what he was — how could we have taken him for a Hell’s Angel? We still had a revelation coming upon leaving. A gentleman, the cashier said, had already paid our tab.

Sitka, AK

A hundred and fifty years ago this town was called Novo Arkhangelsk. It was the capital of Tsarist Russia’s Alaska. The United States had not much to do with Russia in those days. Nothing sinister, at least. On the contrary: Secretary of State Seward was smart enough to buy all of Russian America for a lump sum when it came on the market in 1867 or thereabouts.

The Russians, consequently, are gone but they left their religion behind. That is why there are still enough orthodox faithful in Sitka, and why there is still a beautifully furnished and decorated Russian orthodox cathedral in the middle of town, presided over by a real bishop.

I stopped by last week to see this living museum of a time gone by. A lady was collecting the small entrance fee at the door. I greeted her with a cheerful ZDRUUFFTS-vooyete — how-do-you-do — which drew a blank. I tried the more folksy kak-DYELLO — what’s cooking — but made no contact. So I guess the Russians really did leave.

This out-of-the-way city, once known as the Paris of the West Coast, is quite pretty. It rains a lot, hence everything looks clean and the front yards are full of flowers. It is an orderly city, too. When I asked some one if there is a grocery store anywhere I got clear instruction: over there, on Baranoff street behind that yellow house! And sure enough, at the corner of Lincoln and Baranoff streets there were two large arrow shaped signs on a lamp post. One said BISHOP’S HOUSE, the other one, same size, same type face said GROCERY STORE. No way to get lost in Sitka.

The city is clean on the inside as well. There are only seven bars, I was told, but twenty-seven churches. And healthy food matters to the locals. I know that because the tour guide could not suppress a derogatory remark when the bus passed a MacDonald’s. She thought the big sign next to the hamburger joint, pointing in the other direction, was quite à propos. It said EMERGENCY.

Chariots

John is a good father. His kid, he told me one day, is in danger of turning into a homebody. Like his Dad, he confessed, alas. “When I say ‘we need to go to the hardware store’ I hear: ‘Again? we just went last week’. When I suggest that he go watch the swim meet at the pool he will say, ‘Nya, not really’. When I say ‘lets take the dog for a walk’ he will answer ‘Aww Dad, do we have to?’ And so it goes, no matter where we have to go or whatever I suggest, I have to drag him along. The kid I mean. The dog is not much better. I have to drag both of them along.”

But things are improving, I hear. Seems that a while ago John and his boy were on their way to ‘boring’ Costco when, on their right, they witnessed an illegal but fascinating private little car race. A pink Ferrari Enza, a McLaren, and what looked like a Lamborghini were chasing each other, deftly changing lanes ever so smoothly without, so it seemed, moving a wheel. It looked like magic as hey floated parallel to the line into the left lane, passed a car, and then slid back the same way.

That’s when the kid, the stoic one, burst out: “Wow, Dad, did you see that?” For a moment, John said, he thought he had not heard right. Such an enthusiastic “Wow” from a boy who formerly tended to restrict himself to a querulous “do we have to” or a grunt? Talk about the life changing effects of technological progress on the emotional well-being of the young.

Not long after this event the kid applied for admission to State Polytechnic. John told me the other day that he is now a junior and you cannot keep him from talking about fuel consumption, cylinder capacity, combustion and emission, or why speed matters in four wheel steering and how rear wheels that angle in can help the breaks.

All of us, meanwhile, have also grown a little older. John reports that he now finds himself in the kid’s position. Recently his wife suggested something and he found himself answering ‘Aww, do we have to?’ Yep, she answered, straighten up, we are going to! What scared him most, he said, is that the woman who never talked about cars suddenly has this fascination with the BMW 7 Series “with four wheel steering”, as the man in the commercial emphasizes. John shouldn’t complain, though. He is lucky it isn’t the Lamborghini Huaran Ragno, Edizione Esclusiva that caught her eye.

She couldn’t pronounce the name, I guess.